


Friendly Competition

by lameafpun



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anachronistic, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Glasses, Kissing, Multi, Reader-Insert, Riddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 05:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: It had been a brilliant idea (of course it was; you'd thought of it). Ms. Kringle, beautiful lady that she was, had many suitors and you were one of them. As was, you'd recently discovered, a Mr. Edward Nygma -- your coworker and a friendly acquaintance. Seeing as how you valued his company, you came up with a brilliant idea to prevent any sort of misunderstanding that could occur while going for the same woman. A riddles competition!There is in no way this can go wrong.
Relationships: Edward Nygma & Reader, Edward Nygma/Reader, Kristen Kringle & Edward Nygma, Kristen Kringle & Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

A thump and a muffled grunt of pain is what signals the beginning of the work day for Edward Nygma, as it had for the past few years in his career as a forensic scientist for the GCPD. The sigh is a reflex at this point. 

“So I’ve been thinking.” 

_A dangerous pastime, I’m sure,_ is a whisper in the corners of his mind. Never something he’d say in a tangible way, of course, for fear of a very physical comeuppance. Sass never goes well for him; for all that he has in height he lacks in muscle and what you lack in height you make up for in muscle.

“Kringle is a babe.” 

He chokes on his coffee. Some of it splashes against his desk, and he only has just the awareness to be grateful that very important case files weren’t on his desk yet. Seeing as, you know, he’d just walked into work and hadn’t even had the chance to take off his coat. (The relationship you’d maintained with him as a coworker had been casual — as were your relationships with your fellow office workers — but this felt too casual)

“And you’re a brainy dude. To be honest you’re, like, the definition of that smarty-pants archetype, megane-san, so you’ve gotta be pretty observant and I know because I’ve seen you being veeeery observant of Ms. Kringle. ’s assets.”

The coffee isn’t the only reason why his face is burning. It’s also suddenly very hard to maintain eye contact with you, and so he observes (he can’t quite suppress the twitch even the thought of the word now elicits) the wood of his desk — entirely missing the twinkle in your eye and the gleam of your poorly-hidden grin above carefully steepled fingers. 

“Sometimes I can make people unable to fit through doorways if they complete me. I often open with a flash and close at the cut. A bit scarce with the hints, but you’re a clever guy.” 

With the promise of a new riddle, Nygma manages to raise his eyes. “I believe I understand the detectives a little more now.” 

You squint at him, but watch quietly as he thinks it over. It doesn’t even take him a minute. 

“Competition?” 

“Ding ding ding ding ding! Amazing, Mr. Nygma. Yes, competition. For what you ask?” It’s one of the few moments in your time at the GCPD where you’ve seen the resident 'oddball' look truly mystified, and there’s a hint of dread that you delight in. “Ms. Kringle’s heart!” 

. . . The discomfort that radiates out from him is palpable. 

“I’m sorry, but — “ 

“Apology accepted! But anyway — to be frank, Mr. Nygma, you have excellent taste in women and, as it happens, so do I. Actually, I think people who have to visit their optician real often just get me going. Astigmatism? Near sightedness? Far sightedness? Oo-wee, slap some glasses on those malfunctioning eyes and call a doctor because I am turgid!” 

The pasty-whiteness of Nygma’s skin was really working against him. Red suffused his face and his eyes had dropped back down to his desk, the thrill of solving a new riddle crushed under the wave of conflicting emotions (one of which was first and second-hand embarrassment — they didn’t sound-proof his office, after all, and the records room really wasn’t that far away). 

“And so, I was thinking. Rather than be all petty in our attempts to woo Ms. Kringle, why not solve the problem before it can become a problem? With what, you may ask? A riddle competition!” 

You whipped out a piece of paper with the words “Make babies emerge, what am I?” scrawled in the top margins. It had begun very picturesque, with a set font you had evidently tried to follow before realizing that there was less space than you’d anticipated, forcing you to squish the rest of the letters in haphazardly. On the page itself were only a few bullet points, which you read out to Edward as he scanned it numbly. 

“‘Every week, I will bring a riddle to the opposition. Whoever solves the riddle first will be awarded with a number of points depending on how quickly the riddle can be solved. If the riddle can’t be solved a week later than when it was posited, then a number of points will be deducted. Similarly, if one decides that a riddle can’t be solved earlier in the week, then a number of points can be spent to change the riddle. 

A number of points can be spent to try and court Ms. Kringle — an effort which can’t be sabotaged by the other party. If she becomes uncomfortable with either of our advances, the game stops.’ Full stop, the aim is to woo her, romantically sweep her off her feet, you know? Not creep her out and make it seem like we want her to quit. Consent plays an important part in that. Anyway, that’s pretty much it.”

There’s a shocked silence as Nygma gathers himself. You can see him caught between his common sense urging him to walk away and his love of riddles. There’s an uncharacteristic tightness in his mouth that doesn’t bode well for your competition . . . 

“A container without hinges, lock or a key, yet a treasure lies inside of me. What am I?” 

His head snaps up, an edge of competitiveness making his hand curl around your admittedly shitty “contract.” “You put a lot of time into this.”

You take a second to consider the non-sequitur and shrug. “Managing files is only so exciting and, having my desk in the exact opposite side of the building from where you work, I don’t get a lot of chances to see your legendary riddle skills at work. Speaking of my desk, it’s lunch time! Tick-tock, Mr. Nygma!” 

And with that, you wave goodbye over your shoulder and duck out the door of his office with a spring in your step. 

-

“Heya, Ms. Kringle!” 

The records annex door closes shut with a click behind you, drawing the attention of your (possible) office sweetheart. 

“How’s my favorite records girl doing on this fine day in Gotham?” 

She sighs in exasperation, but the playful quirk to her lips doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m the only ‘records girl’ you know — at the moment, at least. Still training the assistant management assigned to me after that ‘lateral’ mess Nygma dropped into my lap.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear; Nygma slips in through the door in that awkward way he evidently hasn’t quite managed to shed since his emergence from high school. 

“Oh, uh, Ms. Kringle.” His eyes flick between you and the records keeper, obviously wrong-footed by your presence. The quintessential “Nygma” smile is just a few watts dimmer than it usually is. Ms. Kringle is trying (and barely succeeding) at hiding the discomfort she feels in her half-hearted smile. “I was just stopping by for some files I needed on the Sewer Rat murders. There was a very interesting pattern I noticed while initially examining the body when it came to its decomposition — can you guess why?”

“Mr. Nygma —“

Her attempt to make him get to the point is promptly steamrolled over. “I wave, but don’t get sad when no one waves back, what am I?”

“The ocean — is that your riddle?” 

He turns to you, face bright. “Exactly! Human bodies decompose faster when in deeper water because of certain wildlife present therein, which is —“ 

“Mr. Nygma!” Ms. Kringle’s voice cuts through the beginning of Nygma’s spirited explanation with a certain mercilessness, halting it in its tracks and leaving Nygma to collect the ragged ends of his enthusiasm. “What did you come in here for?” 

He offers her his stammering answer and waits in silence, occasionally throwing out a few interesting factoids about deep-sea arthropods in a bald attempt to draw her into conversation. It’s a little painful watching her brush him off as she goes through the cabinets, opening them with a bit more force than is perhaps warranted. 

She hands him the file gingerly. 

“Thank you, Ms. Kringle.” Nygma holds the file to his chest, mouth working as if he want to say something else. 

In his few seconds of silence Ms. Kringle crosses her arms in front of her chest and looks, for all that she’s told you she doesn’t believe in the supernatural and “ESP,” that she’s trying to push the maladjusted forensic scientist out with the power of her mind. 

Nygma seems to get the message. He nods jerkily, and nearly closes the door on his fingers on his way out. 

“Ugh. He’s so . . . odd.” 

There are two instances of protectiveness that surge up in you at that, on Ms. Kringle’s behalf as well as that for your fellow competitor (even when the source of disparagement is your dear, pencil-skirted stone-cold betty with astigmatism . . . )

“He’s interesting.” 

She rolls her eyes, the peek of hazel behind her glasses adorable. “Interestingly odd, then.” 

“Harsh reaction for someone sounding so harmless.” 

“I know, I know! I just — he . . . “ Ms. Kringle looks over your shoulder, at the door Nygma had disappeared through not so long ago. “He’s . . . creepy. He sniffs my hair when I walk by, picks at all the little things I do during the day and it’s just — stressful! Like he’s holding a magnifying glass when he looks at me, like I’m nothing more than a specimen on the table. I hate it.” 

There’s nothing much you can say to that, you think, that doesn’t make you sound rude and flippant. 

“Oh.” 

That wasn’t great, either. (quick, you must save your damsel!)

“Have you tried talking to him about it?” Her wince is an answer in and of itself. “Confrontation. Right. Honestly same; would you want me to talk to Nygma about it?” 

. . . 

You plop down across from Nygma, wincing as your elbows hit the desk. 

“What is it that no one wants, but no one wants to lose?” 

“A lawsuit.” He answers on reflex, as it is one of the riddles you’d overheard him telling the pair of detectives he usually hangs around (oof what was the name of the blonde one again? Gordon? You’d let him investigate you any day).

“Yep, and you’ll be getting one for workplace harassment if you keep on doing what you’re doing with Ms. Kringle.”

The squeak of the chair legs against linoleum makes your teeth itch. “I would never hurt her!” 

Your eyes don’t leave the file on his desk as you wait for him to sit down. “Never said you would.” 

“You implied —!” 

“Move past that, Mr. Nygma. The fact remains that you obviously don’t know how to talk to people you see in a romantic light and, in the spirit of good sportsmanship, I can’t let you continue like this.” 

Finally, he sits down. Actually, it was more akin to him falling down into his chair (his head was spinning — what was happening?) “You would sabotage your chances in the ‘spirit of good sportsmanship’?” 

“My dear, you’re already sabotaging your own chances without any meddling from me.” Your eyes don’t leave the file on Nygma’s desk, the one on the Sewer Rat murders, and it slows your words as you try and read the thing upside down. You don’t see the bob in Nygma’s throat at the name. “Also, you really just need someone to do you a solid. So here I am, doing you the solid of helping you to not alienate everyone on the surface level of your life — it’s not a competition if there is no competition, after all. Congrats!” 

There are going to be many more moments like this that leave him largely speechless in the future, he can tell. 

Nevertheless . . . 

“Earlier — that wasn’t my riddle.” Nygma clears his throat, straightening the various stationary on his desk as he does so. “From house to house I go, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide. And whether there's rain or snow I always stay outside. What am I?” 

A silence that had somewhat settled in earlier again blankets the two of you. You balance one of his pens between two fingers, steam practically billowing from your ears as you think. Nygma frowns at his now-unsymmetrical desk. 

Damn. That’s a good one, you think to yourself, and you begrudgingly tell Nygma as much. He’s visibly pleased with himself. You refrain from childishly beaning him in the head with his pen. 

“Why are you so good at this?” 

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose decisively. 

“‘Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood. All is riddle, and the key to a riddle is another riddle.’” 

. . . 

“You coulda just said you’re a big ol’ nerd. I would’ve accepted that answer, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a cold day in Gotham when you invite Nygma out to a nearby diner for the first lesson in catching honeys (snatching honeys? ehhh something else that doesn’t sound vaguely like assault and relates to vinegar somehow to really complete the metaphor. or something). 

When your lunch break finally rolls around you clock out cheerily and make the journey to the front half of the GCPD building to meet Nygma. 

As you emerge from the hallway, a peculiar scene greets you. Nygma’s tall, gangly frame penned in by two beefier ones — you’d envy his position but the two men were giving off an air that was distinctly more threatening (and not in the good way) than the ones of your fantasies. They pressed Nygma down, using every inch of height to loom over him and force his eyes to the ground. Your steps quickened. 

“ — away from them, creep.”

“Officer Donovan, Garrett. What’s up?” 

They all start, the officers turning on their heel to face you while you catch the glint of eyeglasses over their shoulders. 

“Not much. Just talking to our friend, Eggma, here.” Officer Donovan pats Nygma’s arm with a smile on his face, but you catch the threatening squeeze of his fingers around the noodl-y bicep. Garett just nods dutifully. 

“It’s. Nygma.” The man himself mutters. He’s ignored. 

“Did you need his help on one of your cases?” You smile, the edge catching only Nygma’s eye. “He’s pretty brainy — probably the smartest person I’ve come across. I like that in a person. Sexy.” 

The detectives had gradually backed away from the forensic scientist, whose shoulders are still bunched up. Their mouths hang open a little as you hook your arm through Nygma’s. 

“Anyway, I’m taking this cutie out to lunch. See you around!” 

He comes back to himself about halfway to the diner. 

“What was that?” Vulnerability he probably didn’t intend to show seeps through his words, the insecurity making you tighten your grip on his arm. He was so getting a hug later — when you knew him better, of course; when you were sure that it wouldn’t cross some sort of boundary he had. 

“Your first lesson in self esteem!” 

“A subjective evaluation of your self worth; the positive or negative evaluations of the self, as in how we feel about it as defined by Smith and Mackie?” 

“Woah — hey, yeah! I admit it wasn’t entirely a planned lesson but always better to learn by experience, right?” 

“Why?” 

“Because — oh wait, this diner!” 

Your arms slips out of his. You don’t let him go completely, though, and catch the end of his sleeve to tug him toward the door. The familiar tinkle of the bell rings above your heads. 

“They have some pretty killer soups here.” 

The waitress points you toward a booth that you slip into without much fanfare, your order already set in your mind. Cheryl rushes over and pours out two cups of coffee. Curls of steam rise. It looks pretty hot . . . (is it really, though?)

“Ow!” 

Nygma fidgets in the booth, straightening the utensils with a jerky intensity. Right. There was a reason to come to this diner. 

“You’re an awesome person, Nygma.” The uncertain look he has as he stares at his coffee is . . . wow. Goddamn, what was his childhood like? “No — Nygma, I’m serious. You’re funny, intelligent, you have kickass riddles and you’re cute and that’s not just my thing for glasses talking. A little . . . lacking in the social awareness department but hey, nobody’s perfect. Doesn’t mean there aren’t oodles of awesome people out there. Like me!” 

“I’m not entirely sure I see how this is relevant.” 

“That’s — ok, you’re just not seeing the big picture. Let me explain . . . “ 

(you end up with a paper filled with bullet points of nygma’s positive qualities and his promise to try and understand — or at least think about — people more. it’s a work in progress. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all!)

-

The diner ends up becoming your figurative school house; where you teach Nygma how to get honeys being fly, as the kids say. Ms. Kringle ends up looking happier, too. 

“The answer is ‘path,’ by the way.” 

His head whips up, catching the tail end of your wave as you disappear into the records annex. Ms. Kringle’s (angelicperfectadorable) laugh rings out shortly after. How do you do that? 

That opens another can of worms in Ed’s mind. Why do you do that? He knows that sharing humor can affirm a relationship, and people who were considered humorous did have better chances in said relationships . . . oh. He supposes he’s come to the correct conclusion as he remembers the way Ms. Kringle’s eyes sometimes linger on your form right after you’ve told a joke that draws peals of delighted laughter from her. 

Still, that leaves the other question. Why him? Out of all the people who gather around Ms. Kringle, why is it him you approach for the “competition?” Why do you help him? And why (he taps the folded piece of paper in his jacket pocket absentmindedly, the “why nygma is a swell guy” paper you’d drawn up in the diner) has he actually been feeling the first stirrings of confidence since before middle school? 

The door opens in short succession as another officer — one of the newer ones — runs in. You slip by him with a smile, holding the door open as he fumbles with the files he’s holding under an arm. 

“How do you do that?” 

You sidle up next to Nygma, who’s arms deep in a filing cabinet. 

“Do what?”

“That.” He gestures toward the door. “Make her laugh. You’re building on your relationship with social interaction — humor is important — but how do you determine how to make her laugh?” 

You lean against the cabinet and consider him. His eyes are locked onto you, ready to receive whatever you have to give and treat it like holy gospel. It sends a shiver up your spine. 

A cough cuts through whatever . . . that had been.   
“I found out what she liked, told jokes along the way, and laughed off whatever she didn’t find so funny because I’m always funny. At least to myself. I think what’s most important is that you have to like making people laugh — or at least groan, if the joke is that bad. But you’ve gotta like people.” There’s something in the way he goes back to shuffling through the files that makes you think that wasn’t the answer he wanted. “Being funny isn’t the end all be all though, and it won’t instantly make you everyone’s cuppa.” 

That brings a frown to his face. He pokes through the files half-heartedly. “It’s an egg, by the way.” Even answering the riddle hasn’t brought him the same cheer. 

“Hey.” You nudge him, poking at his side and grinning at his strangled laugh. “You’re a pretty swell guy, Edward Nygma, all by yourself.” 

A small half-smile blooms on his face at that, and you give his arm a farewell pat. 

“There is a certain crime punishable by death in a kingdom. If you’re found to have attempted, it is punishable, but if it is committed, is not. What is the crime? See you later, Nygma.” 

He waves goodbye, a quick little jaunt of his hand, and after the door closes behind you it falls to his pocket again. The edges of the paper is already growing worn underneath his fingers. 

—————

“What have you done to him?” Kristin whispers to you after seeing Nygma out, a file on a murder you’d read about in yesterday’s news under his arm. 

“Hm?” 

“Mr. Nygma!” She hissed, glancing over her shoulder. “He-he doesn’t come around with notes or riddles or his suggestions on ’rhizomatic structures’ — what did you do to him?” 

“Helped him.”

Her unimpressed “Obviously.” makes you laugh. 

“I dunno, honestly. It was supposed to just be a friendly competition but . . . he’s a nice guy, Kris. Sweet, smart, cute — real cute, actually. He just never got the hang of the social thing and that’s where I come in, I guess.” 

Her smirk is a sharp little thing that has you tracing the curves of red with your eyes. It’s magnetizing. 

Wait. 

“Heyheyhey, don’t look at me like that!” 

She shrugs, but acquiesces. The quirk to her lips is only mildly sassy now, as opposed to wildly. “So what was the competition about then?” 

Wow that was the worst question she could have asked. “R-riddle competition.” 

“You’re losing, I assume.”“Hey!” Her laughter is loud and boisterous as you lean back, playfully affronted. “With friends like these, who needs enemies.”

And yet you smile, happy to be the reason she laughed. 

“Seems like you really like helping.” The vulnerability in her face is familiar, bringing you back to many an office conversation and the exposing of sickening greens and yellows. 

Her hands are soft as you thread your fingers through hers. “You’re my friend; you’re both my friends. Of course I help.” I love you.

—————

“Do you ever get to dissect the cadavers, Nygma?” 

“When Dr. Guerra isn’t b — that’s beside the point. No, I don’t.” 

“Do you want to?” At Nygma’s confused look, you point to a magazine placed on the table behind his desk. “Post-Mortem Monthly. Sounds like deathly serious reading.”

That draws a surprised snicker from him. “The manufacturer doesn't need it, the buyer doesn't want it, and the user doesn't know that he's using it. What is it?” 

“Uh . . . oh! A coffin!” 

A genuinely delighted smile comes to his face. “Did you know the word ‘coffin’ is derived from the Latin ‘cophinus,’ which originally meant baskets, and the oldest evidence of wooden coffin remains was found in a tomb in Shaanxi, dated at 5000 B.C? Since then, there’s obviously been a lot of changes brought to how we bury our dead — a lot of innovation in coffin technology and otherwise! — and there’ve been a few interesting developments, like the metal coffin which was thought to deter grave robbers. Eventually, it did catch on with wealthy families who wanted dear old pappy to remain untouched. Ulysses Grant was actually buried in a metal casket, which also brings to mind the etymological distinction between ‘coffin’ and ‘casket,’ with casket being —“

You learn more about coffins than you thought you’d ever need to know. So much information is stuffed into your brain you might never absorb it all, but the way Nygma had talked about the subject drew you in in a way that no teacher of yours had ever managed — in a way that clearly denoted his passion for the subject. It was refreshing. He approached everything with an insatiable curiosity and a genuine desire to learn, and his passion for everything was . . . intoxicating. 

(uh oh)

You blink, finally registering the prompts of your name and realize you’d been staring into Ed’s (when had it become Ed?) eyes without dropping a comment for enough time for it to become somewhat awkward. 

“Suicide. The answer to your riddle — it’s suicide.”

(oh nO)

And oh that feeling inside of you, that reminder, green and roiling and toxic and turning your stomach with so much force you don’t even know where it was directed. 

Right. This had begun as a competition to woo Ms. Kringle who was your friend, your confidant, who didn’t look at you that way because you’d been helping her get with Officer Smythe, who was good and kind like Flass wasn’t and Doughtergy definitely wasn’t — had you even realized you’d been sabotaging yourself? (Your stone-cold pencil-skirted betty who didn’t think three was any type of charm — you still loved her and you couldn’t deny the hurt you felt when you saw her on his arm. ohnoohnoohno.)

“I have branches yet I have no leaves, no trunk and no fruit. What am I?”

You shove away from his desk, laughing nervously. “You’ve got all the good riddles, Ed, I can barely keep up with you.” 

“Is that you giving up all of your intentions toward Ms. Kringle?” 

Something thorny burrows deeper (you’re on the outside looking in). 

“You wish.” 

-

As soon as you’ve swept out of his office, Nygma buries his head in his hands and groans. 

“Why did you say that?” 

-

Like that, a switch is flipped. The floodgates are open and now you can see how you’ve trapped yourself in a situation of your own making. You can’t escape the reminders that Nygma isn’t yours and Kristin never will be, enraptured as she is with the man you set her up with. If he wasn’t so earnest and puppy-like, you think you would have hated him. 

You can’t look Nygma in the eye, knowing how you sabotaged his chances — how could you do that to a friend? 

The riddles don’t come as easily; the delight you took in them now feels tainted and strained. The worst part is seeing Ed notice something wrong and watching him try to power through it. 

-

And like that, a switch is flipped. You’d been on the peripherals of Ed’s life since he came to the GCPD and some time between the start of the “competition” and now you’d gotten close enough to touch. 

-

The lessons in the diner move to Nygma’s apartment. Really, they’ve turned into hangouts and more casual lessons, but the lessons still happen all the same. Arguments on how Pluto really isn’t a planet just take place in between, now (“fuck you, viva la pluto!” “pluto can’t meet the bare minimum of what would qualify it as a planet which is: is a body that orbits the Sun, is massive enough for its own gravity to make it round, and has "cleared its neighbourhood" of smaller objects around its orbit. Therefore, Pluto is not a planet and —“). 

You know you don’t have many “lessons” left to teach. Time feels to be running out — soon, he wouldn’t need you anymore and any pretense at friendship would crumble once your betrayal would come to light. 

You just have one. And it’s a doozy. 

Blood rushes to your head as you drag yourself up to sit properly next to Nygma, the couch cushions shifting underneath you. Spring had come, and with it a capricious cold that managed to flare up whenever you left your coat at home. Ed had lent you one of his sweaters, and it hung over your frame like a circus tent. He wasn’t going to get it back. 

“Today is going to be your final lesson. I have taught you nearly everything I know, my pupil, and after this you will be ready to be that esteemed man who’s ready to go catching some honeys.” 

“Yes, sensei.” He bows at the waist — as much as he can while sitting on the couch and it nearly brings a tear to your eye. Such a good pupil. 

“How to kiss.” You relax yourself against the cushions. “I’ll give you pointers and a few tips and tricks —“

“Would you teach me?” 

Ed’s eyes bore into you, dark and intense and wait. “. . . ‘scuse me?”

“Would you teach me? Experience is the best way to learn, as you’ve said.”

You almost want to ask for clarification but you can see the effort of posing that question took a lot out of him. If you press it, he’s going to go back on it and you want this. A lot. “I s’pose it would only be fair for us both to have the same level of experience when we approach Ms. Kringle.” The excuse is flimsy — for him if he decides to back out — and you can’t deny the way your eyes linger on his lips. Were yours chapped? wait. idea! “First thing you must learn. Always have chapstick on hand!”

Your hands are already in your pockets, scrabbling for the tube of honey-scented balm you’d bought a few weeks ago. Ed’s patting himself down too, though he seems to be having considerably less luck than you. 

“Lip skin doesn’t have sweat glands. Therefore, it does not have the usual protection layer of sweat and body oils which keep the skin smooth, inhibit pathogens, and regulate warmth so lips dry out faster and become chapped more easily.” He’s muttering facts about lips under his breath . . .

It’s smooth against the skin of your lips. You pop a few times, spreading the balm evenly as Ed pauses to watch. 

His search proves fruitless. You offer him the tube and bounce your leg as he applies it with shaking hands. He hands it back to you and you stuff it into a pocket as you turn to face him. 

(He can’t get comfortable on the couch. His eyes switch between locking with yours and flicking around the apartment around you.)

“Okay so — assorted tips. people like kissing people who have fresh breath. oral — heh — hygiene is pretty important considering, you know, the mouth is pretty important part when it comes to kissing. lips, too. Don’t kiss anyone who doesn’t want the kiss. Glasses can sometimes get in the way of a kiss and . . . “

Ed had fumbled his glasses off and wow he worked the look either way but there was something to be said in being able to see someone’s eyes unobstructed; it’s much more personal (oh no he’s hot and oh no you don’t know what you’re doing). 

“Kisses don’t have to stay relegated to the lips — map out the face and all that jazz but we can probably get to that later.”

You slowly lean forward on the couch, swallowing repeatedly as you trail a hand up the front of his shirt, counting the buttons on his button down. A curl of hair hangs on his forehead, and you tuck it away gently behind his ear. 

“Pay attention to your partner and—“

You can feel his breath on your lips. He smells like coffee. 

“Feel free to ask relevant questions at the end of the presentation.”

His lips are soft (the Beeswax Company, coming in clutch). Your noses bump against each other and you smile against his mouth, heart working double-time in your chest. 

It only lasts for a few seconds before you pull away. Even so, you’re left breathing heavily as you open your eyes reluctantly. Ed’s cheeks, which are stretched by a goofy grin that goes from ear to ear, are a borderline unhealthy shade of red. 

“Nygma?”

He opens his eyes, immediately locking with yours and he jerks back almost instantly when he sees how close your face still is. 

“Woooow tell me how you really felt about that kiss.”

He buffers — which is entertaining to see in real life — and holds up his hands when your words register. “Nonono, i want to keep kissing you” He pauses to think about what he’d just said and scrambles to add clarification “for practice to get better —“

You giggle and lean in to press another, smaller kiss to the corner of his lips that leaves his mouth working, struggling to form words. 

The coach creaks as you settle against it. 

“You graduate. Flying colors. Congrats, you’re certified in honey-catching.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, but your head is still in the clouds. 

“I hurt the most when lost, yet also when not had at all. I'm sometimes the hardest to express, but the easiest to ignore. I can be given to many, or just one. What am I?” 

That yanks you back to earth like nothing else could. You curl in on yourself, burying your face in the neck of his sweater. 

“No idea, Nygma.”

“Love.” 

“. . . oh.” You peek over at him and, hoping you’re getting this right, thread your fingers through his and squeeze. 

He squeezes back.


	3. epilogue

It feels like everything is on fire when a shadow falls across your desk; someone (you bet it was trudy, that unorganized bitch) had misplaced a stack of files that hadn’t been signed out and now no one in the office knew what was missing from the archives. Besides that whatever it had been, there had been about three cases of it. 

“You can use me to say hello and to say goodbye. I'm no good when I'm too dry, I can be quick or I can be slow. What am I?” 

“Nygma!” The paperwork is left behind as you leap up to wrap your arms around him.

“Nope!” 

Wh — oh, right. You snort, and lean in to the hug. It comes to you a second later and you tilt your face up to answer, going onto your tiptoes a second later. 

“A kiss.” 

His hands settle on your hips, anchoring you to the earth (even though every kiss of his makes you want to float — _ugh, I’m so sappy_)

Like with all kisses from Nygma, you’re left smiling. 

“The answer totally coulda been sex too, though. Just sayin’. And these creaky desks wouldn’t be ready for that — just something to keep in mind for the future.” 

He looks back from where he’s standing at the door, hand on the knob. He smiles innocently. 

“I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhh the mc sorta dips into cracky character some time howboudah also
> 
> has anyone seen the promo pictures for nygma???? i was looking through them for the intro pic and goddamn it i was losing it — he has such an awkward friggin grin i can’t but he’s trying to look so serious??? oml i really can’t


End file.
